


Forsaken

by Ninjababe



Series: Preternatural Deductions [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Book Spoilers, Canonical Character Death, Case Fic, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Were-Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjababe/pseuds/Ninjababe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson are called in on a case in the country that turns personal.</p><p>If you want spoilers, I put the name of character who died in the end notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forsaken

**Author's Note:**

> This my first ever 'case' story...
> 
> If you want spoilers, I put the name of character who died in the end notes.

"Well, I'm here, Lestrade," Sherlock Holmes stated as he slipped past Constable Clark. "What's so important you dragged me and Watson out of London?"

"Something you excel in," Lestrade replied, making a conscious effort to not roll his eyes. "Solving a mystery."

Holmes raised his eyebrows and made a motion for Lestrade to get on with it.

"Where's Doctor Watson?" Lestrade asked instead.

"He wanted to get us rooms at the local inn." Holmes looked peeved. "As if that is more important than the crime."

"Well," Lestrade replied with a shrug. "Let's get started." He led Holmes farther into the room set aside for the murder victim and left Clark to again guard the door. "It's a female. She's been torn apart. We're thinking a were, but aren't sure the species." Pulling aside the bloody sheet, he looked away. "As you can see, we have little hope of identification. Whatever attacked her paid special attention to her head and upper body."

Holmes ignored the Inspector and stared at the body. 

"Tufts of animal hair were found at the scene. We're currently trying to determine which species it is."

"Unnecessary," Holmes replied. "The attacker wasn't a were. The cuts were made by a blade, not claws." Peering closer, he continued. "She fought. Her nails are broken. However, there is nothing under her nails, so she never caused her attacker harm." Reaching over to the hand that was on the table, palm up, he gently pulled her fingers open. "Also, she pulled a button off the attackers coat. Were's aren't known for wearing clothing."

"All right, all right… So, it wasn't a were," Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"She's married," Holmes pointed out, seeing the undersides of the rings on her hand. He sharply drew in his breath as he turned the hand over. Quickly pulling the rings off, he threw the sheet back over the victim and stalked from the room.

"Holmes!" Lestrade called out. "Damn it, Holmes! You can't just take evidence off the body and leave!"

Holmes ignored him as he approached Watson in the hall. "You don't need to see it."

"We are here to solve a murder, are we not?" Watson asked, trying to get past Holmes. "I'm hoping to wrap this up quick. You know Mary is visiting her Aunt nearby. I'm hoping a visit from me will convince them both to let Mary come home."

"Right now, you need to come with me," Holmes replied, dragging Watson down the hall, opening random doors in the hallway. Seeing a room to his specifications, he pushed Watson in and turned to the following Lestrade and Clark.

"Holmes, what…" Lestrade started to yell.

Showing the rings in his hand, both Lestrade and Clark paled.

Lestrade turned to his subordinate. Before he could open his mouth, Clark nodded and stood guard in front of the room Watson and Holmes entered.

=====

"What was that all about?" Watson exclaimed.

Sherlock nodded towards a chair. "Perhaps you should sit? I've been told that this is better when the recipient has support. Or, maybe standing will be better?"

Watson looked confused. "What?"

Holmes started to pace, his stride manic. Suddenly, he turned towards his friend and pulled at his hair. "I don't want to have this conversation!"

"Then, don't," Watson calmly pointed out.

Holmes growled. "Look, John." Taking a deep breath, he continued. "Our victim. It's… It's Mary."

Watson blinked a few times before glaring. "That is not funny."

"These are the victim's rings," Holmes replied, handing the rings he had been clutching to Watson. 

Watson stared down at the two rings in his hand. One was an unadorned wedding band, the other was the engagement ring he gave his wife. "No," he whispered as he collapsed into the chair behind him.

"I'm sorry, John," Holmes replied, clasping his friend's shoulder tightly.

=====

"No, sir," Clark stated, staring the undertaker down. "You cannot enter."

"I need to prepare that room for a funeral!"

"No one is to enter until my supervisor tells me differently," Clark replied.

Suddenly, loud shouts and sounds of breaking furniture came from behind the door the Constable was guarding.

Without twitching a muscle, Clark seemed to grow more impassive. "Official business. No admittance."

=====

Hours later, after Watson had calmed down, he left for Mary's Aunt's home to gather information about his wife's final hours, and to start the funeral arrangements.

Holmes sat down in a dark corner of the town's pub where he observed and listened.

Within half an hour, he learned all the local gossip, from clothes, to petty crimes, to the theories about Mary's death.

"You're Sherlock Holmes, ain't you?" a gravelly voice asked.

Turning, Holmes nodded, staring at the man before him. His ears were bright red, and his coat's buttons shined in the firelight. "I am."

"I'm Arthur Byrne. I heard you're here to find out who killed our poor Mary Morstan."

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"Poor girl," Byrne said, shaking his head as he sat down across from Holmes. "Goes off to make a name for herself, comes back to visit, and is killed by a rampaging were. We're organizing groups for escorting the womenfolk until the monster is caught."

"You work as a cooper, do you not?" Holmes interjected.

Byrne looked taken aback. "How?"

Holmes just looked bored before standing up. "I’m afraid you'll have to excuse me. My colleague is set to return soon with vital information from the case."

Quickly leaving the pub, Holmes stalked up the street, ignoring the cold. Entering his lodgings, he stared at Watson, who was slumped in a chair by the fire, staring at a full glass of liquor.

"Well?" Watson asked, not looking up.

Holmes lounged in the other chair and poured himself some alcohol. "I have a theory. I think you may hold the final pieces. What did her family say?"

"Her Aunt heard her answer the door last night. She said it was barely within acceptable hours. But, after hearing the front door close, it took a few minutes to realize that Mary had left the house."

"And, she didn't alert anyone?"

"Not then. I didn't press the point, as I didn't want to unduly distress her. Her niece had been brutally murdered."

"Your wife!"

Throwing himself out of the chair, Watson glared down at his friend. "I know that, Holmes! Her aunt has a weak heart. Her dying on the spot wouldn't give us the information we need!"

"I apologize."

Taking a deep breath, Watson sat back down and ran a hand down his face. "No, I apologize." Drinking half his glass of liquor, he continued. "She had the housekeeper keep a look out for Mary. When she hadn't arrived by the next morning, she had the police brought over."

Holmes shook his head. "And, the local constable wasn't helpful, I take it?"

"He stated that Mary was a wild one in her youth. Always gallivanting around the countryside with her friends. She'd show up when she was over it."

"I hope you got his name. He will need a stern talking to."

Watson nodded. "I did get a list of her friends growing up. Most have moved away, but a few are still in the area if you wish to interview them," he stated as he handed over a scrap of paper with a list of names.

After glancing at the list, Holmes stood up and put the list in his pocket. "No need. Let's grab Lestrade."

Watson jumped up. "You know who did it?"

"Yes," Holmes said as he threw open the door to their suite and stalked down the hall to pound on Lestrade's door.

"Then, let's go get the bastard." Watson growled.

"Not without Lestrade," Holmes replied, staring at Watson. As Lestrade opened his door, Holmes continued, "I'm not having _you_ hanged for the murder of your wife's murderer."

"You know who it is?" Lestrade asked as he grabbed his coat, Clark standing behind him.

"The murderer should still be at the town's pub," Holmes replied as he led Watson, Lestrade, and Clark out of the inn.

As the four entered the pub, they paused to let their eyes adjust to the light inside. Then, Holmes motioned for them to all sit at a table near the center of the room.

"A young man grew up with Mary. They were inseparable. He asked her to marry him, but she wanted away from small village life. In his mind, she would tire of her adventure and return to be his wife. He lived frugally, saving what he could, only spending when he must. A few weeks ago, his love returned! He gave her time with her ailing Aunt before visiting. Then, he found out she was married! He was devastated, heartbroken. Then, he got angry."

As Holmes talked, his voice got louder and louder until the whole pub was listening to his explanation.

"He returned, days later, still angry. Not knowing what was in store, Mary opened her Aunt's door to her childhood friend. He subdued her, probably with a glancing blow to her head. After pulling her out of the house, he softly closed the front door and dragged her into the country. His chosen career gave him strength, so it was easy for him.

"But, before he could finish his deed, she had awakened from her swoon and started to fight back. As it was cold, she couldn't reach skin to hurt him, only tearing fur from his hat, and a button off his coat before he was able to kill her."

Watson was pale and gripped the table edge, his knuckles white.

"He stared down at his victim. The fur in her hands gave him the idea to pin it on a were-creature. He tore more tufts of fur from his hat and spread it around the scene before slashing at her body, using a nearby rock to smash her face in. He hoped that she would be interred as an unknown, and Mary would have disappeared off the face of the earth. Then, he left the scene, still carrying his bloody rock and blade."

"But, who?!" Lestrade exclaimed, one hand gripping Watson's shoulder to keep him in place.

"Mister Byrne, of course," Holmes replied, turning to the man in question.

Arthur Byrne backed up a step in shock before steeling himself. "You slander me!"

" It's interesting to note that even though you are a near skinflint, you are wearing a new coat, the second one in two years. Yet, you are without your very lovely fur hat, according to gossip. Obviously, both were covered in blood and torn when you killed Mrs. Watson."

"She was Mary Morstan!" Byrne growled out. "She was mine! But, she cheated on me! She needed to pay!"

"She was my wife!" Watson growled as he reached for the murderer, only to be held back by Lestrade and Holmes while Clark advanced on Byrne.

Soon, Byrne was in cuffs, and led away. 

"Steady, Watson," Holmes calmly said. "He's in police custody. He'll hang for this."

Watson slumped. "It won't bring her back. It isn't enough. Hanging is too good for him."

=====

"Are you ready?" Holmes asked.

Watson shook his head. "I will never be ready."

Putting steadying hands on his friend's shoulders, Holmes replied. "It must be done." A few minutes passed, and he took a deep breath. "You will move back in with me. It's the only possible outcome going forward. In fact, Mycroft is taking care of it as we speak."

Watson gave a small smile and nodded before straightening up and turning to the priest. Giving a quick nod, he stood straight and stared ahead.

"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live…"

**Author's Note:**

> I still can't believe I wrote this... 
> 
> The character who died is Mary Morstan Watson.
> 
> A cooper is a barrel maker. 
> 
> Thanks to Sparrow for Byrne's last name. 
> 
> The last line is the beginning of a burial service from the 1662 Book of Common Prayer.
> 
> Thanks to Ithildin for being a bouncer of ideas, general listener of complaints, and pointing me to the proper location for the funeral service.
> 
> I do have a bit of a coda planned, even though I'm still ambivalent about it. If I do write it, it'll be something that the reader can choose if they want to believe happens or not... Mostly because it's dark and torture filled...


End file.
